


honesty is (some kind of) policy

by SeleneLavellan



Series: Dirthalene [21]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Arlathan, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Feynite Fanwork, everyone is a liar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:31:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17097326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeleneLavellan/pseuds/SeleneLavellan
Summary: It has been nearly three centuries since Selene came to live in Dirthamen’s lands.Three hundred years of blueprints and journals and experiments with nearly limitless boundaries. Of exploring hidden passages and shifting hedge-mazes, of learning who above her is likely to approve the riskier ventures and who to give the ideas that are less worth the sacrifice required of them. Centuries of cultivating friendships with her partners, of parties and shared meals and free days spent exploring the nearby towns and crossroads.Three centuries of avoiding Dirthamen himself.





	1. Chapter 1

It has been nearly three centuries since Selene came to live in Dirthamen’s lands.

Three hundred years of blueprints and journals and experiments with nearly limitless boundaries. Of exploring hidden passages and shifting hedge-mazes, of learning who above her is likely to approve the riskier ventures and who to give the ideas that are less worth the sacrifice required of them. Centuries of cultivating friendships with her partners, of parties and shared meals and free days spent exploring the nearby towns and crossroads.

Three centuries of avoiding Dirthamen himself.

 

Selene knows that nothing good can come from catching the attentions of an Evanuris.

No, she knows well enough how to blend into the crowd. To keep the hood of her cloak up and her hair tied back and tucked in, to keep her head down and walk near to the walls to avoid the creatures that hide in the rafters.

 

 

It is one of her off days, and the sky above is dark and laden with heavy, rolling clouds. But one of the mazes has been recently regrown, and the hedges are in full bloom with pale pink camelia’s on every wall. Selene smiles as she delicately rubs at the edge of a petal.

 

“It’s going to rain soon, you know,” A familiar voice hums from behind her.

“I’ve never been scared of a bit of water,” Selene returns, turning to face Des with a grin. He leans in to greet her with a soft kiss on the cheek, before spreading his arms wide.

“I have exciting news!”

 

Selene raises an eyebrow, mildly skeptical of what qualifies as ‘exciting’ to her friend. “Oh?”

“We’re going to a party tonight!”

Selene frowns. “No, thank you.”

“Seleeene-”

“I’m really not-”

“Innovation already bailed on me-”

“-won’t be any fun to have around-”

“I can’t go alone!”

“So take Melanadahl. He loves parties.”

 

Des scrunches up his face and sticks his tongue out like a petulant child. “Pass.”

“I thought you two were friends.”

“We  _were,_  until he decided he was strictly a top.”

 

“Ooh, how  _blasphemous_ ,” Selene drawls.

“It’s significantly harder for me to put  _my_  dick in someone when Melanadahl has already stuck  _his_ -”

 

“I get it!” Selene says, holding both hands up in surrender. “But I still don’t want to go.”

“It’ll be fun! You like fun!”

“Will there be wine and dancing and heavy petting in shadowed corners?”

“Most likely.”

Selene clicks her tongue and points at Des with her index finger. “And that’s exactly why I’m not going.”

“Sel _eeeeeeene._..” Des whines, high and drawn out.

She sighs; he’s being even more adamant than usual for some reason.

 

“Is Wonder going?” She asks.

His mouth shuts.

His arms cross over his chest and his foot starts idly drawing in the dirt beneath them. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“Uh-huh,” Selene nods.

“You don’t believe me.”

 

Selene hums and shrugs her shoulders.

“He’s not-” Des huffs. “Whatever. Yes, fine, Wonder is going.”

 

Ah.

So  _that’s_  why he doesn’t want to take Melanadahl, then.

She doesn’t have to deal in secrets to know about Des’s crush on the other man.

A crush that is  _painfully obviously_  reciprocated.   
But genuine emotions can be hard, and confronting them can be even harder.

 

“I’m still not going to go,” She starts, holding a finger up to stop Des before he can interrupt. “But you should wear my shadowed gown to the party.”

 

“That covers so much skin though,” Des pouts.

“So the reveal will mean that much more when you offer it to Wonder, one on one. There’s a nice deep slit up the leg for you to play with that will leave most of your thigh open for opportunistic flashes; I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

He looks ready to argue still, but the rustling of another, heavier figure in the brush draws both of their attentions before he gets the chance.

 

One of the palace guards comes around the corner, slightly out of breath.

 

“Apologies for the interruption,” They say, standing straight. “But our Lord Dirthamen requests Selene’s presence in his office.”

 

–

 

The walk back through the maze and up the steps to the castle is…tense. At best.

 

She has never actually met the man. She has, at best, seen him in one of his thrones overseeing the runners of the labyrinths. But she is rarely around when he makes his final inspections, as most of her work is on the theoretical side, rather than actually building or powering any of the creations. He does not feast in the hall with his people,  and most of his orders come to the workshop in the hands of Turmoil, or one of the Speechless.

 

Selene is not sure what she has done that he would ask for her, in particular.

But she is terrified of the possibilities, all the same.

 

The gaggle of guards surrounding her, walking her through familiar halls as though she were a prisoner is not doing her nerves any favors, either.

 

The bottoms of the guards staves bang on the floor in unison as they approach two large oaken doors that she has never dared to cross through, for fear of who may be waiting on the other side. They swing outwards, and Selene braces herself for the worst-for walls lined with tongues and eyeballs and instruments of torture. For a monster of rage and power who has soaked in their privilege for too long to declare her fate on a whim, and rob her of the freedoms she has earned.

 

But there, sitting at a large wooden desk littered with papers and ink, is simply an elf wearing a cloak and a mask.

 

She feels…underwhelmed.

But the relief is immense, and she finds that even if this  _is_  a trap of some sort she is grateful for their modest appearance.

 

The guards walk backwards out of the room, deeply bowed-and it only then occurs to Selene that she should  _also_  bow and she rushes to do so-and close the door behind them with an empty thud.

And then she is alone in a room with an Evanuris.

Not somewhere she had ever hoped to be.

 

“Is this yours?” Dirthamen, the God of secrets and knowledge and father of the dragon-devouring Varterrals asks her, holding up a scrap of coffee stained paper.

 

“Erm,” She manages, still mostly bent over in a bow and avoiding eye contact at all costs.

 

“You may rise,” He says, and she stands with an acknowledged nod, frantically tucking strands of her hair back into her hood.

“Is this yours?” He asks again, pushing the paper across his desk towards her.

Selene leans forward slightly and-ah.

Yep.

That is in fact one of her papers that she had been doodling on during a particularly long and boring experiment a few months ago. It must have gotten shuffled in with the report by mistake somehow.

 

“Yes, my lord.” She says slowly, still avoiding eye contact.

 

“It is very interesting.”

 

Selene eyebrows shoot up. “You….think my doodles of tools around the workshop are interesting?”

  
“Oh, no,” He says dismissively, and Selene swallows nervously around the lump in her throat at the bluntness of it. “But the equations you wrote underneath them are. Although the sketches are…endearing.”

 

Oh.

Right.

 

“They’re from a scroll I located in your library,” She deflects.

“You have expanded on them quite thoroughly.”

“They’re just…ideas,” She says lamely, staring down at the floor. “Just theories. I have no idea if they’d actually work or not.”

“They would,” Dirthamen states with complete confidence. “Given the proper environment.”

“Oh,” She breathes.

 

“Have you worked with this sort of renewal magic before?”

“Not personally,” She admits. “Most of my work is just…just groundwork. I come up with an idea and it gets passed on to someone else. On occasion I get to partake in some of the experiments, but normally only when we are close to a deadline and the extra hands and eyes are necessary. Or if there are extra resources, sometimes I’m permitted to test my more unusual hypotheses, with supervision.”

“How long have you been in my workshops?”

“Nearly three hundred years now.”

“And what were you doing previously?”

  
Something catches in her throat, and she can’t quite breathe correctly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Before you came to work in my castle, were you working in a similar field of research? Doing experiments or gathering information on renewal magics?”

 

Selene is trying to speak, trying to breathe, but she’s-before,  _before,_ she was-songs and gold and touch and-no, no more. Keep covered, stay hidden, stay quiet. Do good work, keep to yourself, stay alive, stay  _alive_   _and earn your freedom-_

 

“I was apprenticed,” She lies. “On the outskirts of the territory. But it wasn’t anything focused on any one area of study.”

 

“I see,” Dirthamen says. He sounds disappointed. “Are you aware that some of Ghilan'nains people have attempted similar theories?”

 

“I did travel a bit, before,”  _before, before_ -no.  **Focus**. “I spent a few months wandering through the workshops of Arlathan. I had caught glimpses of some of Ghilan'nains workers, and attempted briefly to work with a few of June’s craftsman-but they were more closed off, and less willing to share in any sort of exchange. It’s quite possible some of the influence of those experiences will show in my…” She hesitates to call it such because what he is holding is hardly the pride of her intellect, scribbled in thinning ink on a stained piece of paper torn from a corner of her journal. “…work.”

 

He seems more pleased with her answer this time around.

“Thank you,” he says. “I will keep an eye out for anymore of your work that crosses my desk.”

 

Selene blinks, eyes slowly scanning to the large, nearly toppling pile of papers covering the sides of his desk, some of which are certainly in her handwriting; she can think of at least three projects still waiting on his approval off the top of her head. But it would be uncouth to mention it now, she thinks.

She nods instead, and bows out of the room to return to her own.

The rain is falling in thick sheets outside the walls of the castle and she takes a moment to let out a disappointed breath.

She had hoped to go back outside today.

–

 

Another month passes, and Selene has noticed a substantial uptick in approvals for projects with her signature.

She hasn’t shared her theory as to  _why_  this is with anyone else yet. 

Des had forgotten her summons entirely after the party, too giddy and focused on attempting to go through proper courting rituals with Wonder after their latest interaction, so she hadn’t wanted to bother him with it.

 

It’s dangerous, really. It means he is likely looking at her work with more scrutiny than he was only a year ago, and if he looks too closely at her, well.

That will only lead to trouble of the worst sort.

 

Enastaren knocks on the door of the workshop, keeping technically just outside of it as Innovation has instructed him time and time again.

“Selene,” He calls. “It’s time for rounds.”

“Coming!” She calls back, closing up her journal and tucking it into her pack.

 

She follows Melanadahls brother through hallways and passageways, finally exiting at the bottom of the stairs of the castle.

 

Not the ones in front though. Nor the ones facing the town, or any in eye sight of Dirthamen of course.

 

No, these are the ones that lead towards the shallow pond.

At the bottom of which is an eluvian only the two of them have knowledge to use.

 

Selene still isn’t entirely certain of Enastarens motivations for what he does; though she knows her own only too well. This assignment had been her only chance at freedom, however false it may be when looked at too closely. But it gets her outside of her Lords direct clutches. She is less chained to his whims and his collars and his cages here. She can breathe the fresh air and pursue subjects she has genuine interest in. Things outside the realms of song or dance or sexual activity.

Enastaren rolls up his silken sleeve and presses the palm of his hand to the glass of the Eluvian, brushing away a false layer of algae just enough to pass her notes through to the elves waiting on the other side.

 

Notes on trade, and projects, and wards. On the training of Dirthamen’s soldiers, and blueprints of unguarded passageways. Notes on all sorts of things that Selene should not have knowledge of.

 

“He wants to talk to you,” Enastaren mutters, hand still on the glass.

  
Selene swallows and shudders and forces herself down to her knees, rolling up the sleeves of her robes until she can press her own palm to the surface of the eluvian. It is warm enough to burn her, even in the freezing cold of the water around it.

 

“Devotion,” Her lord greets. It vibrates through her, even at this distance, and she has to fight the urge to pull her hand away and run. Her old name from his lips is great and terrible and full of unspoken threats.  A chain around her neck, even with so many thousands of miles between them.

 

“My Lord Falon'din,” She greets, head bowed and eyes low.

“Our God of Death and Fortune. How might I serve you?”


	2. Chapter 2

There is a new face in the workshop today.

 

Selene makes a mental note of them, before continuing on with her usual business. They do not draw attentions to themselves, and their appearance is, by most standards, quite plain.  
Mousy, almost.

 

In fact, she forgets them entirely until Melanadahl decides to invite them to lunch.

 

“Selene, meet Sairal,” Melanadahl says almost dismissively as he gestures towards the brown haired elf beside him. “They’re gonna be working with us for a little while.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” She smiles. “Are you new to the castle?”

 

“No,” They say.

 

They don’t break eye contact when they speak.

They barely crack an expression, in fact.

Selene blinks first with a quiet “Oh.”

 

 

Enastaren slides onto the wooden bench on her left while Des mirrors the action on her right.

 

“I got a written summons today,” Enastaren gripes, taking a large bite out of his poultry leg. “Doesn’t even say  _why_. Just ‘be in my office at the end of the week’. Gods forbid he should give anyone a reason for why he does something. Fuck the rest of us I guess, right? ”

“You shouldn’t have pissed off our illustrious leader,” Des teases, delicately cutting apart his own piece of meat. “That’s what happens.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Enastaren argues. “I haven’t even seen the man outside of a run watching in centuries. What could I have possibly done to piss him off so suddenly?”

 

 

Selene takes a careful bite out of her roll and keeps to herself the mental list of things they’ve done that would justifiably upset the Lord Dirthamen.

A long,  _long_ list.

But nothing recently that would be out of the ordinary, she thinks.

 

“Maybe you’re getting promoted,” She offers instead. “Have you done anything particularly  _well_  lately?”

 

Enastaren tilts his head slightly away from her in consideration.

 

“You think our parents presented the new warding ideas you had for uthenera shrines to our Lord?” Melanadahl pipes in. “That could bag you a couple steps up the ladder, if he’s decided to implement them.”

 

Selene is fairly certain that the changes Enastaren has been working on are not responsible for his unlikely promotion.

Largely due to the fact that she had done most of the work on them, and implemented a subtle redirect of the energies to filter out from the recently-sleeping and into Lord Falon'dins designated sections of the dreaming. Subtly enough that Enastaren hadn’t noticed them, despite his numerous revisions.

 

Lord Dirthamen, she supposes, might have a keener eye.

 

Selene frowns, realizing that she may have inadvertently doomed her near-friend, if his parents have indeed presented their unfinished concept to the god himself.

 

“Is something wrong?” Sairal asks, still staring at her from their space across the table.

 

“Just a bit jealous,” She lies with a quick smile. “It’s always a lucky sort of honor to be chosen by one of our great leaders.”

“Enastaren has always been lucky,” Melanadahl nods, breaking off of his brothers still-ongoing tirade about how this _must_ be a promotion now that he thinks of it, and that he’ll be sure not to forget the rest of them when he’s rubbing elbows with the Evanuris at parties and orgies.

  
Her appetite quickly leaves her at the topic, most of her tray of food still unfinished as she excuses herself for some fresh air.

 

He would not be so eager for the experience, she thinks, if he knew what it truly entailed.

–

 

It’s not a promotion.

 

She knew that, of course. She’s known the truth of what Enastaren does behind closed doors and in hidden places for centuries, now. But she had never thought he’d be  _caught_.

 

A foolish naivete on her part.

 

Melanadahl is in inconsolable shambles when the news breaks.

His brother has been branded a traitor and sentenced to judgment by labyrinth. The same labyrinth they’ve been working on for years now.

She stands awkwardly behind him while he weeps onto Des’s literal shoulder at the cruelty of the Lord Dirthamen, wondering at how he could make such a mistake as to think Enastaren was ever anything  _but_  loyal, after millenia of service by their family.

 

Selene does not think she would aid the situation by pointing out the truth of his brother. Sometimes it is better to remember people the way they exist in your memories, and not in the way they existed in truth.

It is the most kindness she can manage.

 

She debates the merits of sneaking him out; she knows the passageways out of the dungeon, knows how to slip into the dreaming and back into the lands of Lord Falon'din undetected. 

But it would require her to go back with Enastaren, and there is no guarantee Lord Falon'din would not simply kill him himself for his failure anyway.

It is terrible; but she doesn’t have the strength to go back.

She may as well have killed him herself, she supposes.

 

“Were you close?” Sairal asks from behind her, snapping her out of her reverie.

“I’m sorry?”

They nod towards the sniffling Melanadahl. “His brother. Were you close?”

 

Selene hesitates.

“We shouldn’t talk about it here,” She says quietly, leading them out of the room and away from the pair of elves.

 

“We were friends,” She admits, once they are in the hallway and safely out of earshot of the others. There is a window behind her, and there is a gentle breeze blowing through the trees outside of the castle. The sun is beginning to set, and painting the sky a dazzling array of colors in its journey.

The sort of view Enastaren likely has a limited number of, now. Because of  _her_  mistakes.

 

Sairal shifts their weight from one leg to the other, and seems to be pondering their words carefully before finally announcing. “He was a spy you know,”

“I know what he is accused of, yes.”

 

They shake their head, light brown hair falling over dark brown eyes as they do. “No; it is a certainty. We found several notes of matters outside of his standing, as well as an eluvian hidden in a pond on the castle grounds that led into Falon'dins lands. Upon inspection, we discovered a long hidden burrow of some of his informational scouts. The people there had several memories of Enastaren selling confidential information to them that were taken as evidence.”

 

She feels her mouth go dry; memories.

They had searched  _memories._

Will she be summoned to the labyrinth next?

Will they even wait for Enastarens blood to dry before her own run begins?

 

“That sounds…” She trails off, head shaking in disbelief.

“It is not uncommon,” Sairal says with a shrug. “Falon'din is often attempting to seize whatever power he feels his brother should not be permitted.”

 

Selene shakes her head a bit more, fingers clutching at the long sleeves of her robes.

“What will happen to Enastaren?”

“He will either survive the labyrinth and win the prizes awarded to those who do, or, more likely, he will perish within its walls.”

 

Selene swallows.

“How do you know all of this?”

 

Sairals lips purse slightly, and they appear to be having some sort of internal monologue again.

 

“You’re a spy for Lord Dirthamen,” She says before she can stop herself, because of course they are of  _course_  they are. Quiet and unobtrusive and easy to forget the face of. 

That explains why they had been sent to Melanadahls side; if anyone had been working with Enastaren, who more likely than his own brother?

 

Perhaps she has been spared, if only by the luck of preconceptions.

 

“You should not say that aloud,” they respond.

“Sorry.”

 

“… _I_  am sorry,” They begin, eyes looking down at the ground and for a moment Selene feels her heartbeat race. Do they know, then? Is this the part where they kill her, or arrest her, or drag her into Lord Dirthamen’s chambers unwillingly for their own sort of 'justice’?

“For the likely loss of your friend,” they finish.

 

Selene breathes out.

“You were just doing your job,” She assures them.

They nod in agreement.

“You have been given pardon from your duties for the remainder of the week,” They inform her, and she feels her eyebrows go up. “As have Melanadahl, and Des, and Innovation though she chose to refuse it.”

“… _Why_?”

“It is a customary mourning period,” They say. “Lord Dirthamen does not wish to be cruel to those who do not deserve it. And he feels it would be cruel to force you all to finish the very creation that will likely kill your friend.”

 

Selene almost laughs.

“He must be very thoughtful indeed,” She says, trying for sincerity rather than the biting sarcasm she feels in her chest.

“That is…an uncommon assessment to make,” They admit.

 

This time, she  _does_  laugh.

 

“Well,” She says, finally catching her breath. “Tell him I said thank you for the mourning period, I suppose. A little kindness is still far more than that given by most in his position.”

“I will,” They nod.

 

Selene gives them a polite bow and begins to walk back towards the room containing Des and Melanadahl, before she feels a hand wrap around her wrist.

 

Her adrenaline surges, and the rug beneath her feet catches fire.

 

Sairal quickly releases her and dismisses the sudden flames with a wave of their hand, looking at her more curiously than she likes.

  
_Shit._

 

“I apologize for touching you without permission,” they say with a much deeper bow than she has ever received in her embodied lifetime. “Des has mentioned your distaste for physical contact, and I had a momentary lapse in judgment. I hope you can forgive me.”

 

Selene rubs gently at her wrist, warm where they had grabbed her, but not in a way that is…entirely terrible.

“I forgive you,” She tells them slowly. “But please do not do it again.”

 

Sairal nods and seizes eye contact with her. “I will be more careful in the future. If you do not find me distasteful, I had hoped to ask if you would spend one of your newly freed days with me.”

 

Selene blinks once.

Twice.

“What?”

 

“Ah…” They stumble. “Perhaps I have done this incorrectly. Would you…accompany me into town? Or around the grounds perhaps? There is a beautiful trail into the mountains we could traverse as well if you would prefer.”

 

. _..what?_  She repeats internally.

And then it clicks.

Oh.

_Oh!_

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

 

“An outing,” They insist. “Unless you would like it to be a date, of course.”

 

Selene opens her mouth- and finds herself without words.

She’s never really…considered the option of dating. It certainly isn’t something she’d ever been permitted. Lord Falon'din doesn’t  _share_ , even with legions worth of toys. Having a viable romantic partner, or being seen as one is…an embarrassingly new concept.

Definitely a completely terrible idea.

…but also a surprisingly thrilling one.

 

And with Enastaren captured and one of the larger scouting groups likely dead, it’s not as though she is without time. It could take months, possibly even years for a new message to reach her now. The number of contacts he has in these territories has been waning; he will need to have new ones trained or bought at this juncture, as well as a new eluvian built, likely farther from his brothers eyes.

She should probably take the opportunity to run. To make a real attempt to cross the ocean or the borders into the territory of the Nameless while he has lost track of her.

But it would mean leaving all of the friends she has made here. Des, and Melanadahl, and Innovation, and even Sairal.

…She should run.

 

“Let’s call it an outing,” She says, heart racing at the surge of freedom she feels just from making the choice “And see how the day goes.”

 

Sairals face brightens considerably as they agree to her terms- _her_ terms, she thinks almost giddily-and agree on a meeting point for the following day.

 

It is probably some sort of betrayal to go out with the elf who turned in her friend, she thinks. Surely it is selfish and terrible and awful of her to do this while Enastaren is waiting in a warded dungeon cell below the castle. But it is also an opportunity, and one she doesn’t want to waste. Enastaren certainly had no troubles seizing each and every opportunity that crossed his way during their partnership.

 

A day out, with a regular elf possessing no ulterior motives or hidden secrets except that, for some reason, they seem to genuinely  _like_  her.

She smiles all the way back to her rooms, humming beneath her breath.


End file.
